Remembered Portrait
by antipathic-alligator
Summary: "A thought struck her suddenly as her gaze followed the curve of his cheekbones. In all the years of her… fixation she was unwilling to call it an obsession, despite all evidence to the contrary , she had never given him a name." Based off the ending 'Forgotten Portrait'.


Hi guys, alligator here! This is my first time working on a fic for the Ib fandom, and it's my first ever multi-chapter fic! That mean's I'll probably be kind of a newbie, so I hope I don't disappoint you guys... Hopefully I'll be able to update at least once a week. I would like to thank my wonderful beta Fira Jones, who was nice enough to help me out. The game and it's characters, it's settings and it's story do no belong to me. I lay claim only to my interpretation of the ending.

...

One week.

Her self-control forced her away for one entire week. The gallery had been a haven for the young art student, as well as her near-addiction. She knew the familiar place better than her own flat by now, could have navigated it blindfolded and been able to correctly identify each painting if necessary. She could vaguely recall a time in her youth when the mere thought of an art gallery had awoken in her a hideous, dark fear for reasons she could name.

Until she saw him.

Until that fateful autumn day when a simple school field trip had brought her to him.

Until she had noticed the exquisite painting. The rumpled and tattered blue coat. The blooming roses in that enthralling shade of cerulean. The way the sleeping man looked as though he was waiting for the right moment to wake up and turn his stormy silver eyes with an apologetic smile, like he had kept her waiting. The girl, leaning more toward a woman at age 20 and a junior in arts college no less, but still a child by her slight frame, and unparalleled innocence and curiosity. Ib found herself frowning slightly. Why had she thought of his eyes as silver? They were just as likely to be blue like the surrounding roses, or green as their stems, or even that pale yellow of the lemon candy he held.

She fished in her own pocket for one of the treats. It had become her habit to stand in front of the portrait and, soaking in the details of it, consume the tiny sweet depicted in the painting. The young woman cocked her head to the side, her maroon gaze scanning the frame first, looking for any damage that might have been incurred since her last visit. An almost audible sigh parted her lips, as if the tiny discolored fleck on the wood was a blemish to the gallery itself, though she sincerely doubted that anyone but herself and perhaps the curator noticed it.

She tucked a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear, the majority of it secured in a bun, looped by a thin dark red ribbon. Her eyes roamed the canvas, drinking in every detail as if it were new. Ib could feel her pulse quicken as she scanned his sleeping form, her eyes tracing each brushstroke. When she realized that the lemon candy had all but dissolved, she took a few steps back and sunk into the small bench just across from "_The Forgotten Portrait"_. There were few benches or seats of any kind in the small gallery, and up until a few months ago the one she now perched upon had been set up across from "_Fabricated World_". It underwent relocation after the curator had happened upon her sitting cross-legged on the floor trying to sketch the man in the painting. Ib had brought macaroons to the older gentleman on her next visit as a 'thank you' for the slight rearrangement. She brought out the same sketchbook now from her tan canvas bag, as well as a few pencils and a putty eraser. She blew the bangs away from her face in mild annoyance, mentally noting the need for a haircut and flipping through the nearly full book of drawings. She had many similar ones, stuffed with sketches, doodles, ink and watercolor abstraction, but none quite as special as this one, the one reserved for him. In some he smiled, in others he wore an expression of fear, even a few where he looked away in pain and resignation. Each was so familiar, as if she had seen him making such faces sometime long ago (she _had_, cried that little voice in the back of her mind, she just had to _remember!_). Ib shook the unbidden thought away, pushing the sleeves up on her white pull-over sweater to avoid getting graphite smudged on them. A dark red scarf was pulled around her neck, warding off the chill in both the recycled air of the Guertena Gallery and the brisk November day. A knee-length skirt of the same color in a thick, soft fabric ended just above white knee-length socks for the same reasons. Matching maroon flats completed the warm, albeit slightly unfashionable ensemble. She started to sketch the shape of his face, almost not needing to look up but for the occasional pang of fear that when she glanced back he would be gone. A thought struck her suddenly as her gaze followed the curve of his cheekbones. In all the years of her… fixation (she was unwilling to call it an obsession, despite all evidence to the contrary), she had never given him a name. Ib pursed her lips, wondering how she could have gone so long without such a detail.

What about George?

Her nose scrunched as though she smelled something foul, and she dismissed the name.

Perry?

She shook her head, the sound of it was right, but something was still off about it.

"Garry!" an older, frazzled woman scolded the boy whose hand she clasped. He hid his pout under a mop of auburn curls, his fun of running through the upper level's inhabitants halted by his mother. Ib's gaze flicked to the man in the painting. "Garry…" she whispered, clutching the sketchbook tightly to her chest, trying to stem the sudden wave of emotion that had washed over her. The distraught young artist shut her eyes and bit her lip, warding against the tears that already threatened to fall. Why was she reacting like this? Reaching into her bag, she rummaged blindly for a tissue, quickly closing her hand around her lacy handkerchief. She withdrew it and subdued a slight sniffle as she rubbed at her eyes and then opened them. Her brows furrowed as she realized the boy and his mother had left. She had closed her eyes only a moment, hadn't she? As she strained to hear over the stereo-assisted strains of classical music, she found with a start that she couldn't hear anyone anymore. She hurriedly packed her sketchbook into her bag and hefted it over her shoulder, leaving the strap to cross her chest. Ib swore her heart skipped a beat as she edged towards the nearby hall's entrance, spying not a soul. She made her way over to the stairs, nearly tripping as the lights flickered and then died, leaving the place in dim grayscale. The curator was not at this post, and as she hurried to the doors she knew they would be locked even as she reached out to twist the handle to no avail. She swore quietly and bit her lip again, pondering her options. It occurred to Ib that she felt somehow safer upstairs, near… 'Garry'. It was as she reached the top step that the window across from her darkened, as though someone had passed in front of it. She froze and inched away, letting out a cry of panic as it rattled as if being pounded upon by a hand. She retreated with her eyes on the window, looking away only when she stood in front of "_The Forgotten Portrait_"." Help me…" She pleaded, feeling crazy and alone and terrified. Not as crazy, however, as she felt when the painted man shifted ever so slightly, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips as his head dipped in an almost imperceptible nod. She had just enough time to mouth 'What-' before she felt an invisible, forceful hand at her back, pushing her into the frame, the image rippling and giving way. She felt as though she was falling through pitch darkness, stifling a scream.

She awoke with a pounding headache, and dull pain in her forearms and knees, plus a sharp sting that caused her to grit her teeth as she moved her shoulder. Ib could smell wax and ashes as she rubbed the worst of the pain away. Opening her maroon eyes, she glanced around the room cautiously, taking stock of her location. It looked as though she had landed in the middle of a child's scribble, pink crayon defining the junction between walls and the floor. She assumed the ceiling was not actually there, given how far she had fallen. Scattered about were what looked like mannequin heads, easels and crayons, and a few dolls that gave her an uneasy feeling. Behind her were the remnants of a painting, blackened by fire and still gripping the last shards of protective glass, the rest littering the floor in front of it. Ib could only scowl at that. Who would burn a painting!? What sort of deprived and heinous…

She cut off this trail of thought as she took in the small pile of ashes a few feet from her, and beside it a palette knife. Something twisted inside her, pulse quickening in sudden anxiety. Why did these ashes frighten her? She got to her feet and warily took the few steps to get to the tool. Images of the shadow at the gallery caused her to shiver as she recalled them , stooping to retrieve the knife. At least it offered some measure of protection against what might lurk in this strange place. At first the shiver had been out of fear, but now she realized it was continuing from the chill in the air. Ib tucked the palette knife into her bag and then wrapped her arms around herself to warm up, moving quickly toward the stairs. It hadn't been this cold the first time she'd been here, she mused. Then she stopped dead in her tracks. First time? She'd never been here before. Why was this place so hauntingly familiar? Biting her thumb, a nervous habit, she picked her way down the stairs and found herself with a choice between going through a door or another flight of stairs. She was vaguely aware of the yellow blooms that colored the walls as she twisted the knob, frowning as it jiggled uselessly in her hand. Locked. The other hand nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as her gaze found the stairs. Without another option, she descended carefully, watching the roses become yellow stars, the pink crayon fading into a deep blue. Running in one direction, the corridor continued to awaken emotions she didn't quite understand.

A deep sadness.

A flutter of desperation.

The loss of something precious.

"If you need help… I'll come running." A soft voice echoed in her mind. Her brows knit closer together. Where had she heard that before? She tried to ignore the feeling that she was forgetting something important… Lost in thought as she was, Ib didn't notice the small bundle on the ground until her foot caught it and sent her crashing to the floor with a yelp. She braced herself as she fell, the impact jarring her already-sore shoulders. She glanced down with a scowl at the offending object, a rolled up coat. Her eyes widened as she made a mental checklist.

The right shade of blue? Yes, she could have picked it out from hundreds.

The high, turned up collar? Down to the last shredded point.

The long, tattered and frayed body? In perfect detail.

It was his coat alright, belonging to the man from "_The Forgotten Portrait_". To the one she had dubbed Garry. With trembling hands she brought it towards her, noting that there were other things tucked inside. Glancing down the halls to be sure she was alone, she buried her face in it as a child would their teddy bear. Ib inhaled the scent of cigarette smoke, a hint of shampoo, laced with lemon. She cautiously unwrapped the coat to reveal it's treasures, a pair of keys, a blooming red rose, and a small, broken blue rose bud, the scrap of one petal clinging to life. For some reason it awoke in her the tentative stirring of hope, and she got to her feet with a newfound courage. Slipping the bag from her shoulder, the put the coat on, rolling the too-long sleeves up to a more manageable length. The transferred the knife to one of the coat's pockets along with the key and the red rose, which Ib felt curiously protective of. The other rose, or what remained of it, went into the inner pocket of her canvas bag.

She could do this, she thought confidently.

If only she knew what 'this' was.

...

Well, I hope you liked it! Please rate/review/favorite if you liked it (or if you didn't in the case of problems/criticism/what have you). See you next time!


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